3. Shitty Singer
SHITTY SINGER
ANDERS
By the end of class, my hand is cramping so badly I can barely fit my laptop back into my bag.
Dr. Markut continues yapping about nonsense while half the room packs up early.
Nobody ever waits around after his lectures unless they absolutely have to.
The man radiates the kind of energy that makes students walk faster instead of actually going to him for help.
I wait anyway…mostly out of spite, but also because I’m a brown noser.
Markut notices me immediately. His eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Mr. de Sousa.”
“Great lecture today, Dr. Markut.”
“You’re approaching my podium.” He sets his marker down carefully. “That never means anything good.”
I drop my graded paper onto the podium in front of him. “I just wanna know why this got a ninety.”
He glances down at the front page, then back at me with a sarcastic look. “You got a ninety. You’re unhappy with it?”
“I’m upset about the principle.”
“The principle,” he repeats flatly. “Ten points.”
“It brought my grade down. You didn’t leave feedback on why I got docked the points.”
Markut exhales slowly through his nose before flipping through the pages. “Your paper was supposed to compare Obama’s Liberalism to FDR’s.” He straightens the pages neatly, almost like it’s habitual. “You over-explained and it weakened your argument.”
I cross my arms. “The maximum count was two-thousand words. I stayed right under that.”
Markut ignores that entirely, flipping to the second page. “This paragraph here.” He taps the paper once. “Excellent argument. Strong analysis. Then you ruin it by over-explaining because you suddenly lose confidence halfway through.”
“I wasn’t over-explaining.”
“You used the phrase ‘in other words’ three times.”
I open my mouth and immediately close it because he’s right. I wrote that paper half-drunk at four in the morning.
“You could’ve written half this, maybe,” he continues. “And walked out with a better grade.”
Markut slides my paper back across the podium. “Cut out the unnecessary stuff and tighten your argument,” he says. “Bring it to office hours next Friday and I’ll take a look at it.”
My brows lift. “For extra credit?”
“No.” He puts his glasses back on. “Because I said so.”
I stare at him another second before grabbing my paper. “Thank you,” I murmur. “I appreciate that.”
“There you are,” Aviva beams when I slide into the booth.
Ward’s Tavern is a hot fucking mess tonight, like always. Every surface is sticky. The floor is a graveyard of crushed peanut shells and spilled beer. Every Friday, the tavern hosts some sort of competition, where more and more people file in each week. Last week was trivia. This week is karaoke.
“Markut wants me dead,” I huff, kissing Aviva on the cheek.
She viscerally recoils, whipping her head to the side and smacking me in the face with her auburn curls in the process. “Dude. Makeup.”
“Sorry, babe,” I smirk. “I just thought you were naturally this gorgeous.”
“That is not a compliment,” Lee snorts from across the table, absentmindedly running their hands through their long blonde hair.
Aviva rolls her eyes right back and waves me off dismissively.
We met in Intro to American Government when I accidentally stole her seat and she informed me—in graphic, horrific detail—exactly what she thought of me. Three years later, we’re as thick as thieves.
Like it’s perfect timing, Charlie emerges with two pitchers in her hands, barely making it over to the table. Beer sloshes, accidentally spilling down the sides of the plastic pitchers as she fights for her life trying to slink her way through the overflowing crowd.
Yep. Girl is drunk.
Charlie is kind of my spirit animal. She was dragged into the group courtesy of her twin brother, Calvin Malloy, who Aviva has been dating for a few years now.
Lee dated my freshman-year roommate, but was awarded full custody of me in the breakup.
“My Anders. You’re finally here,” Charlie squeals, squishing me between her and Aviva.
The pleasant combination of her warm vanilla perfume and the beer on her breath crowds my airspace.
She wraps her arms around my neck and leans in for a kiss on my cheek.
I make the mistake of turning my head at the wrong moment, and our lips briefly connect.
Aviva immediately chokes on her drink. Lee doubles over and slams their fists on the table.
Charlie pulls back wearing the expression of someone who has just discovered a new favorite hobby.
“And don’t you forget it, baby,” she smirks, winking at me.
“Charlotte,” Lee sighs, slugging their arm around Charlie when she slides back into the other side of the booth. “Please tell me you didn’t swipe Aviva’s flask while we were in the bathroom.”
“Chillax, Lee Bear. I’ve had two beers,” Charlie rolls her eyes, shifting all her long braids to one side of her shoulder. “I just can’t help myself. I’m in love.”
“With who?” I snort.
Charlie falls in love with someone every twenty minutes.
Kind of in a whimsical way, but also because she’s got a severe case of maladaptive daydreaming with an unsettling dedication to making her dreams come true.
Last month, it was Aaron the Starbucks Barista.
Last week, it was a DILF on the Metro. And now…
“Mickey Rogers,” Aviva cackles.
“No way,” I blurt. “Cal’s teammate?” Mickey Rogers is a younger goalie on the Sentinels. Great guy, a little shy, but he could easily match Charlie’s energy in some opposites-attract kind of way.
Yet another hockey player added to my circle. My brother plays hockey. My best friends are dating hockey players. I live with the captain of an NHL team. It feels like my entire life revolves around the sport, and I haven’t even played it since high school.
“My brother pissed me off,” Charlie shrugs. “So I fucked his teammate.”
I almost spit out my beer. I wish I could say that same sentence…but I digress.
“And now you’re in love,” Lee retorts flatly. Always keeping it real. Our designated voice of reason.
“For now…” Charlie smirks. “Where’s your girlfriend, by the way?”
“Lady Fatin is at a theater rehearsal.”
Aviva lifts her hand in the air and does a princess wave. “Lady Fatin,” she murmurs dramatically, giving the three of us a bow.
Last semester, Fatin wrote and directed a play that was basically an excuse to dress up as a princess with all her theater friends. We’ve been calling her Lady Fatin ever since.
“You guys are making me feel so single right now,” I groan, topping off my glass. “I’m downloading an app.”
“No!” Charlie shouts. “Anders. No. You’re not allowed.”
“Give me your phone,” Lee threatens.
“The devil speaks through you,” Aviva murmurs, shaking her head like a disappointed parent.
“I know, I know.” I put my head down on the table, immediately regretting my decision when my hair literally sticks to the table. “Ugh. Just put me down.”
Aviva pats me on my back. “We’ll find you a man, babe. You just have to put yourself out there.”
“That’s too much effort,” I complain.
But it’s not even that. The problem is that every time I try to imagine myself with anyone, my brain immediately replaces their face with Parker’s, which, I’ll admit, is deeply pathetic and maybe even a little disturbing.
There are approximately eight billion people on the planet and somehow I’ve convinced myself that the one man I can’t have is the only one worth wanting.
I’m not supposed to want him. We’re supposed to be friends, and nothing more.
But sometimes that just feels impossible.
Parker has this strange way of reminding me exactly who he is and what he means to me.
Living with him has just made things worse. Sometimes it feels less like we’re roommates and more like we’re playing house without acknowledging it. The biggest problem seems to lie in the fact that we’ve both gotten comfortable existing in this mind-fuck of a limbo.
“You know what I need.” I lift my head back up and swipe my hand down my face as an idea strikes me.
“Drugs?” Charlie guesses.
“Yes,” I say slowly, nodding once. “But also…” It’s hard to hide my grin as I pull my phone out from my back pocket and scan a QR code on the table that automatically opens to a sign-up form.
Aviva sees it first, her eyes widening, and immediately covers her mouth in horror. “You did not.”
“What did you do?” Lee asks in horror.
“We’re doing karaoke,” I beam.
A symphony of disappointment and annoyance appears across the booth, taking over my friends’ bodies and turning them into boring robots.
“No!” Charlie shouts, covering her face with her hands. “Anders, no. You can’t do this to me.”
“But I’m so sad and single,” I pout, batting my eyes.
“Maybe you’re single because you’re a shitty singer,” Lee mutters. “I’m not going up there with you. I’d rather do a solo.”
“Wait, we have to,” Aviva protests suddenly, fully amused. “Anders needs our support.”
“Lee, I chose your favorite song,” I tell them. As if that makes it any more appealing. Their face just somehow manages to look even more horrified.
“Wait, I thought Lee’s favorite song was that fifteen minute song by Joanna Newsome,” Aviva says. “The one that sounds like you’re stomping around in some bog or shit.”
“Dancing in the Moonlight, guys. C’mon.”
“No,” all three of them say in unison.
“Single and friendless,” I sigh dramatically, slumping back against the booth and clutching my chest. “What has the world come to? This is blatant homophobia and sexism.”
“Sexism?” Aviva snorts. “You’re a man.”
“Exactly,” I retorted. “Two women and one nonbinary lesbian walk into a bar...”
“Anders, I’m about to hit you,” Lee warns.
I grin, dragging my beer towards my lips.